Who Am I?
by MagnoliaHolmes
Summary: Sherlock and John are called to work on a case involving a stranger who has lost every bit of their memory. Throughout their journey to discover what happened, Sherlock and John might just figure out who they are, where they've been, and maybe become more than just friends along the way. Eventual Johnlock, I promise!
1. Prologue

_A/N: Hello again! I've been neglecting my stories lately, school geting in the way and all, but I'm back! Also, this will be my first multi-chapter fic! I'm super excited, sorta nervous though, because I don't know how often I'll be able to upload. I got a few busy months ahead of me! I'll still try to update as often as I can._

_Disclaimer: ME NO OWN. (I wish!) But sadly, no. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are the property of Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle and the glorious telly show (which is finally shooting again! AHHH!) is under the control of the BBC._

_P.S. No, I am not crazy, (well, that's debatable), and this chapter will make sense once the story continues. This chapter is super short, just to give a little taste on what this fic will be about. Just hang in there! Enjoy!_

* * *

_Who am I?_

It's a very common question. Sometimes asked by curious teenagers trying to discover where they're meant to be. Sometimes, it's the reason behind a break-up, when one of them claims to "not know who they are," and "want to find themselves before they commit to another." It also happens to be a song from the popular musical Les Miserables.

Unfortunately, my reason behind asking that question is completely different, for I can't seem to remember my own name.

* * *

_A/N: Ooooh! Who is this mystery stranger? And I know, I know, super short! But I'm writing another chapter as we speak! Aye, reviews are love! :)_


	2. Time To Grow A Heart

_A/N: Here it is! As promised!_

_P.S. The point of view in this fic will tend to jump around a tad, but it won't be too hard to follow. Just thought I'd let you all know!_

* * *

"John!"

Maybe if I ignore him, he'll go away.

"John!"

Come on, just take a hint already...

"JOHN!"

Well, there goes that idea. I guess I can sleep later.

"WHAT SHERLOCK?"

Suddenly, he bursts through my bedroom door, already dressed.

"There's a case! Let's GO." He starts trifling through my wardrobe, looking for clothes for me to wear.

"Sherlock, I can get dressed by myself. Just leave me be for five minutes and I'll be right down," I say, my voice still heavy with sleep. He flings himself out my bedroom door, and I take that as my cue to get up and start getting ready. If there's a case, I really have no other choice than to get up and go, even if it is four o' clock in the bloody morning.

* * *

I'm in desperate need for some coffee. Here we are in St. Barts, waiting for Lestrade to get us clearance and allow us to see whoever we're here to see, and it's half past four in the morning. I'm exhausted. Sherlock, on the other hand, is awfully chipper. He has that same gleam in his eye and look on his face he has before every case. He worries me sometimes.

I tried asking him what Lestrade had told him about the case, but all he shared was that apparently the DI hadn't told him much, except for the fact this case would be a real challenge to Sherlock. Now, of course the consulting detective didn't believe that, but it definitely sparked his interest.

Finally, Lestrade comes into sight and he beckons us to follow. We walk down a few hallways, use the lift to get to a different floor, and finally stop in front of a room. Before we can enter however, Lestrade turns around to face us.

"Now Sherlock, I know how difficult this seems to be to you, but you must go a little easy on her," he says.

"And why should I do that? Sentiment and feelings are irrelevant," Sherlock retorts, with a truly bewildered look on his face.

"This girl... There's really no way of knowing what she's been through. Anything could of happened to her, and it's not like we can just ask her."

"Why not?" I say. Is the mystery girl being uncooperative, or something?

"Because she doesn't remember."

With that, a nurse opens the door, accidentally running straight into Lestrade.

"Oh dear, I'm sorry. Are you with the police?"

"Yes ma'am," he replies. "Can we go in now?"

"Sure, dear."

Me and Sherlock follow him into the room. There's a teenage girl who couldn't be older than 17 sitting on the hospital cot. She stares at us as we enter.

"Who are you?" she asks with an American accent. Interesting.

"We're here to help," I say. "What's your name?" I try to be comforting, because the poor girl looks really distraught.

"I don't know."

"Excuse me?" Okay, now I'm confused.

"I don't know who I am. I'm sorry." She looks as if she's about to burst into tears.

"It's okay, it's okay. We're going to help you."

"No," I hear from behind me. It came from Sherlock.

"What?"

"I won't take this case."

Me and Lestrade glare at him incredulously. "And why the hell not?" Anger is lacing my words now.

"John, how am I supposed to deduce anything about this girl if she can't even remember who she is!?" he says. He's looking at me with that trademark 'you're stupid and I'm not' look.

"So what?" I reply. "We are helping this girl, Sherlock. And that's final."

"I am not one of your subordinates you can just order around, John. I am in no way obligated to take this case."

"I. Don't. Care. We are taking this case, Sherlock. It's about time you grew a heart," I'm really becoming angry now. Maybe it's some kind of paternal instinct.

"John, that is ridiculous. Of course I have a heart. How would I be alive if I didn't possess one?"

Okay. He _really _worries me sometimes.

I turn my attention back to the girl one the bed. "Listen, we'll do everything we can to help. First, we'll get a picture of you circulating around so we can find your family and discover what your name is. Is that alright with you?" I ask.

"Yes, that's alright with me," she answers.

Lestrade claps his hands together. "Well, alrighty then. Let's get started."

* * *

_A/N: Okay, I know John seemed kind of pissy back there, but I really take him as the protective father type. I also promise that the next chapters will be longer!_

_Good? Bad? Awful? Go easy on me! :)_


	3. Abbey

"No one? Not a single person?"

"Nope. We've searched the whole of England and not a soul recognized her face. Since she seems to have American lineage, we also sent her information to the FBI in the States, but they haven't got a single hit, either," Lestrade explains.

"Well, someone has to know her," I say. "She can't just be nobody."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

We make our way back into the hospital room. It's been two weeks since we first met this girl and she still can't remember a thing. And with nothing for him to deduce, Sherlock's been quite bored and not at all helpful. He just sits and sulks in the corner reading a forensic journal.

"Bored."

"I really don't care, Sherlock."

"Have any news?" our mystery girl asks.

"Unfortunately not," I reply. "But don't worry, we'll keep trying, uh..." I pause. "It seems a little impersonal to not call you by a name, doesn't it?" She nods. "Lestrade? Where did you say you found her again?"

"Out cold over on Abbey Road."

"Well, how about that then? Can we call you Abbey for now?"

For the first time in the last couple weeks, she smiles. "Well, I guess Abbey's as good a name as any."

"Good, good. Well Abbey, Sherlock and I are going to go grab some take-out. Would you like anything?"

"No, thanks."

"Okay. Sherlock, here. Now."

He glares up at me, with what looks to be an insult forming on his tongue, but he must have decided against it because he gets up and follows me out of the room. We meet Lestrade out there.

"Lestrade, be honest. Why did you call us here? I mean, I want to figure out what happened to this girl just as much as everyone else, but this doesn't really scream foul play to me. Am I missing something?"

"Normally, I would agree with you, John. But we ran a few blood tests and found a foreign substance floating around. It doesn't look dangerous, per say, but we can't identify it either," he explains.

Suddenly, Sherlock looks up with an excited look on his features.

"Well, Lestrade, since you insist on me attending all of your excruciatingly tedious sessions with 'Abbey', I think the very least you and your team of squabbling idiots can do is let me examine the substance you found in the girl's blood."

"Please. It might be the only way to shut him the hell up," I plead.

"Fine. But once you discover what it is, I'm the first one to know. Got it?"

"Well, of course, Lestrade," Sherlock replies with a mischievous smile. "Come on, John. We've got work to do."

* * *

"You can't be serious."

"It's a hospital, John. They need the rooms for the people who are in critical need of them."

"Well, where is she supposed to go? We haven't even located her family yet!" I'm starting to become a little annoyed.

Lestrade looks at me with a truly apologetic face. "I was hoping maybe she could stay with you."

* * *

"No."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

Though she insists on being able to do it herself, I help Abbey up the seventeen steps to the flat. We make it to the door, and I hesitantly open it, wondering what she'll think when she looks inside.

"Wow. This place is... Interesting."

"Better than what most people say," I chuckle.

"Is that a real sku-"

"Trust me, let's not go there."

Sherlock stills seems fairly angry with me, but I can't bring myself to care. This girl needs a place to stay, and though our flat is probably not the best option, it's the only one we have. He glares at me for a few more moments before disappearing into his room, slamming the door behind him.

"Don't worry. He'll get over it. Now, are you hungry?"

* * *

_A/N: Sorry I lied. I know this is actually shorter than my last update. But this fic is still sorta in the set-up stage. It'll get better. I'm also extremely tired._

_Reviews make my heart flutter._


	4. Impossible

_A/N: Aye, I'm back! In all honesty, I was waiting for a couple reviews before I continued, and I got them! So here comes chapter 4!_

_P.S. I love constructive criticism, as long as you're nice! :) Also, this is back to Abbey's POV, but the little part at the end is in John's._

* * *

It's strange not remembering who you are.

What are my parents' names? Where am I from? When was I born? What's my story?

The only comforting thought I have is this John guy. He's really kind. Sure, the police and the hospital folk were nice as well, but he's different. I've known this man for only a month and he already treats me like a daughter. It's nice to know I have someone who'll help me through this.

Sherlock, on the other hand, is a different story. He's rude. He's sarcastic. And the eyeballs on the counter scare me a bit. But he's smart. Like, _really _smart. And if he can figure out what's happening to me, then that's good enough for me.

I've been staying in their flat for a little over two weeks now. I don't do much. Everything on the television bores me, so I took to reading some of Sherlock's books. He wasn't very happy with it at first, but once he realized it would keep me busy and away from him, he was fine. He seems a little puzzled as to how well I'm retaining all of the information in the countless forensic journals and history textbooks. It's strange for me, too. I can comprehend everything I read, but I can't even remember my own name. How's that for irony?

One day, I'm sitting on the couch, John is in his armchair, and Sherlock is in the kitchen experimenting with the chemical the cop man provided him with when a excruciating pain split my head. I must have passed out from the agony, because the next thing I know, I'm on the ground looking up at John.

"Abbey, are you alright?" he looks genuinely worried.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm alright... I think."

"What happened?"

"I don't know, I... I..." All of a sudden, a brief glimpse of a picture shows up in my head. A garden, with blue flowers. And a woman with long brown hair. "I think... I think I remembered something."

"What? What did you remember?"

"Just some woman in a garden, I don't recognize her. But then again, how could I," I say sarcastically.

All of a sudden, the sound of breaking glass comes from the kitchen.

"IT'S IMPOSSIBLE!"

"What is, Sherlock?" John asks.

"This substance does not exist. It is completely organic, yet it does not exist! It simply doesn't!" Sherlock storms into the living rooms and flops onto the couch with his arms crossed, and a pout resembling a four-year-old. At least, I think that's what a four-year-old looks like.

"Well, obviously it has to exist, now doesn't it?"

"Shut up, John."

"Shut what up, John? If you are referring to me quieting myself, then a more correct phrase would be 'can you be quite Sherlock,' for simply saying 'shut up' could mean a number of things, such as-"

I couldn't contain my giggles at that point. Suddenly, Sherlock jerks his head in my direction and glares.

"What is so amusing?"

"You two! So, how long have you been together?" I ask between giggles.

"Well, John moved in approximately four and a half years ago, so-"

"That isn't what she meant, Sherlock. No, Abbey, we are not romantically involved for I am not gay, and Sherlock here is married to his work," John replied, sounding rehearsed. How many times has he had to explain that to people?

"Really? Bullshit."

"Excuse me?" John asks, looking somewhat annoyed.

"Oh come on!" Do they really not see what's in front of their faces? "You two are perfect for each other, I bet anyone can see that considering I've only known you for a month and I can see it!"

"I have no interest in being romantically involved with anyone regardless of-"

"Oh, just stop. This is ridiculous. I'm gonna leave the room now to give you two some privacy. If you aren't bumping uglies by the time I get out, there's gonna be a problem." With that, I exited the room, not before seeing the shocked look on both of their faces.

* * *

"Sherlock, you don't need to listen to her. It's not like we haven't heard it before."

"Yes John, I know. But, would you mind if I tested a theory?" Sherlock replied.

Oh god. Now what.

"Sure, Sherlock. What theory?" I say, unsure of what will happen next.

Sherlock gets up from his position on the couch and leans over my chair, with one hand resting on each armrest. His face is mere centimeters from mine.

"This one."

And with that, he closed the gaps between our lips in a bruising kiss.

* * *

_A/N: CLIFFIE. Kinda, sorta._

_Reviews are like rainbows! Spread the rainbow joy!_


	5. The One Who Stayed

"SHERLOCK. What the _bloody hell_ are you doing!?" I yelled, standing up and pushing him off of me.

"I told you, John. Experimenting!"

"Oh really?" Was he serious right now? "And how are the results looking?"

"Inconclusive. Perhaps if I could have a few more test trials I cou-"

"No, Sherlock!" I couldn't believe the man standing before me. "You can't just go around kissing your flatmate! Did you even _ponder_ what this might do to our relationship?"

"John." I couldn't tell if his impassive face was just an act or not. "You and I are both aware of your attraction to me, both physically and emotionally. It seems ludicrous to deny it, no?"

I was seething with anger. How dare he? Not even consider my reaction.

"No, Sherlock. Your massive brain has deceived you. I am not attracted to you, in any way. Now, just... Just leave me alone for a bit."

"But John-"

"No, Sherlock. Just go."

With that, he picked up his coat and scarf and left the flat. I made my way back to my chair and plopped down into it. Suddenly, I heard something rustling behind me.

"Abbey?" I asked.

"Yeah, it's me." She came out of her place of hiding and went to sit next to me. "I'm sorry, if I caused that in any way..."

"No, no, it wasn't you. That was completely Sherlock."

"But were you really serious? I mean, you two seem perfect for each other." She said.

I sighed and looked down at my hands in my lap. "I really do care about Sherlock, but there is no way I'm going to voluntarily enter a romantic relationship with him."

"And why is that?"

"Because emotions are very difficult for Sherlock to understand. I'm not going to willingly give my heart to him, give my _everything _to him, just for him not to reciprocate."

"Oh, John." She looked at me incredulously. "Do you really think he doesn't care about you? That he doesn't love you with all his heart?"

"Yeah? And how would you know?" I snapped. Seeing the surprised look on her face, I apologized. "I'm sorry, Abbey. It's been a confusing day."

"It's alright, John. But seriously. Me being cooped up in this flat has given me a lot of time to read your blog, and even study your friendship. Everything Sherlock ever does, not matter how infuriating, shows how much he loves you. A man like that..." She paused, as if looking for an accurate describing word for Sherlock. "A man like Sherlock is not the sociopath he claims to be. That man right there is one with a past. You can see it in his eyes, can't you? You need to be genius for that one. Do you know anything about his childhood? His family? I know you told me about his antagonistic relationship with his brother, but there's so much more that. In fact, he probably doesn't hate his brother nearly as much as you think, considering he's the only one that's stuck around. And that right there is why he loves you, John. It can't be easy working alongside this man, let alone living with him. Don't you see? You, John, are still here. You stayed. You showed him that he is _capable _of being loved. Capable of having a friend, and companion. Don't you see that the only times he smiles, well, when there isn't a corpse lying around, is when he's looking at you? He loves you, John. And you'd be an idiot not to realize you love him just as much."

What is one supposed to say after a speech like that?

As if she read my mind, she said, "Now go. Go find Sherlock. He needs you."

I was halfway out the door before she even finished her sentence.

* * *

For someone who looks so different then everyone else, Sherlock sure knows how to disappear.

I must of spent over three hours searching London for the consulting detective, and with no luck. I was staring to get desperate, and desperate times call for desperate measures. I fished my phone out of my pocket and dialed.

"Yes, Dr. Watson?"

"Mycroft, I need you help.

"Of course, and whatever do you require assistance with?" I could practically hear him smirking.

"I can't find Sherlock. We had a bit of a fight. and I'm worried about him. Can you find him?"

"Are you doubting my indefinite skills, Dr. Watson?"

"Just find him, Mycroft."

"I'm texting you the address now."

* * *

The address was for some seedy-looking building in a very seedy part of London. _What is Sherlock doing here? _I wondered. I pushed aside the plastic sheet where a door should have been and stepped inside. It was dark, and smelled of homeless people. _I don't like this one bit. _I thought.

Being an army surgeon definitely made it so horrible images didn't effect me as much, but nothing could have prepared me for what I saw in there. There was Sherlock, my best friend, lying on some ratty mattress, with a needle in his arm and a sleazy, unkempt man smirking beside him.

"SHERLOCK!"

* * *

_A/N: Writing this made my heart hurt. But it had to be done, to work into the story!_

_Please review! I can't tell if anyone is enjoying this story if there are hardly any reviews!_


	6. Please Don't Leave Me

_A/N: Hey everyone! It usually doesn't take me this long to update, but I've been a tad busy. Here's chapter 6! Please review!_

_P.S. I actually had to do quite a bit of research for this chapter, but if any of this information is wrong, feel free to tell me (as long as you're nice about it!)._

* * *

_One Week Later_

You'd think being a doctor would make sitting in a quiet hospital less unnerving, but it really isn't. Sitting here, in Sherlock's room, I've never been more overwrought. Seeing my friend-no, best friend lying on the smallish cot with oxygen tubes running through his nostrils is possibly the worst site I've ever seen Well, almost as bad as what I saw when I found him.

_"SHERLOCK!"_

_The greasy man standing beside him jumped and looked at me, before taking off in the opposite direction, but I wasn't worried about him. I'd kill him later. I sprinted over to the mattress on the ground where Sherlock was. I ripped the needle out of his arm._

_"Sherlock! Sherlock, can you hear me? Sherlock, wake up, damn you!" I cried. His eyes were glossy and it seemed as if he was looking at me, but I wasn't sure. _

_I whipped out my phone and called 999. "Hello? I need your help, I think my best friend just overdosed." I gave him the address and hung up the phone. I contemplated calling Mycroft, but I was sure he'd know within the next 20 or so minutes, anyway. Instead, I just held Sherlock in my arms, whispering encouragements in his ear, telling him not to fall asleep; pleading for him not to leave me._

_What seemed like hours later, the ambulance arrived. When they tried taking the consulting detective away from me, I hesitated. I only agreed when they said I could ride in the ambulance with him. They lifted him up and in, and I followed. Once inside, I grabbed onto his hand. Who gives a flying fuck if people talk? This is my best friend. Wait, scratch that. This is my _only _friend._

_Finally, we arrived at St. Barts. We all ran inside, and I was set on following him into the ICU, but they wouldn't let me._

_"I'm a doctor!" I argued._

_"Sir, you're emotional connection to this man is too much, we can't let you inside. Please, we'll inform you when we know more." The doctor said, and turned around to accompany the others._

_And then, I waited._

_It wasn't until another two hours later that anyone told me anything. A doctor came out and told me they found heroin mixed with other depressants, causing an overdoes. He was in severe danger of going into respiratory arrest, but they had hooked him up to an oxygen tank and he'd be in a coma for a while. Little did they know, he'd be in that same coma a week later..._

The door slammed, bringing me back to reality. Standing there was Abbey, with a crestfallen look upon her face.

"John? How are you? How are you holding up? Has Sherlock woken up yet?" She had so much hope in her eyes, but it was masked with a deep sorrow.

"Bad, badly, and no." I replied.

"John," she paused. "It really isn't healthy for you to spend all your time in this room. Have you even had anything but coffee since you got here?"

"I don't need food. My body is only transport." I reply flatly.

"Oh, sweet baby Jesus, now you're starting to talk like him. Look John, he would want you to take care of yourself. He loves you, remem-"

"Don't you say that!" I snapped. "Don't you dare say he loves me! How could he do this to himself if he loves me? If he loves me, then he would take care of himself for me, because he knows how much I love him! He would't destroy himself like this! He wouldn't be such a fucking idiot!"

Both of us just sat there for a moment, before she stood up with watery eyes.

"You stupid idiot! You still don't see why he did this? Because of you, John! Now, I'm not blaming you, because really, it wasn't your fault, but this shows how mentally unstable Sherlock really is!"

"And how is that?" I'm still oozing with anger.

"BECAUSE YOU REJECTED HIM!" She shouted. People outside the room were starting to look in at us through the window, but neither of us cared. "He came onto you, and you made it look as if you weren't interested! All his life, he's been alone! Then, when you show up and he tries to deepen your relationship, you say no and he isn't ready to accept that! And judging by how quickly he got hold of the heroin, this wasn't his first time shooting up! I think he returned to this because he was hurting; hurting because you inadvertently hurt him by making him think you didn't love him as much as he loves you." She sat back down, clearly out of breath because of her outburst. "John, I'm not blaming you, and I know Sherlock won't either, but we need to help him to get better. He needs you."

"B-But what if he doesn't..." I swallowed. "What if he doesn't w-wake up?"

She covered my hand-which was holding Sherlock's-with hers. "He will."

* * *

It was another few hours later. I had talked to Abbey and convinced her to go back to 221B, as long as I promised to go back tomorrow, shower, and take a break. It was dark outside now, and even though I knew I shouldn't, I was really starting to give up hope.

_What if I never get to tell him? _I thought. _What if he never knows how much I love him?_

His vitals seemed fine, and so did his heart rate, but we wouldn't know anything until-_or if-_he wakes up.

I hadn't let go of his hand for hours, and I desperately longed for it to squeeze back.

"Sherlock, I..." What was I supposed to say? And it's not like he could hear me anyway. I mean, sure there were stories of previous comatose patients recalling hearing voices while being asleep, but no one knew for sure whether these accounts were valid. I decided to talk to him anyway.

"Sherlock, I love you. And that's just about it, huh? I don't really think that there's anything else I could say to make myself feel any better about our predicament, here. I mean, you're Sherlock Holmes! The great consulting detective! You're not supposed to fall victim to some stupid, idiotic depressant. If ever you were to fall, it would be solving a crime, or saving a life that would do you in. No, this isn't supposed to happen. You should be up and walking around right now, with your long coat billowing behind you. You should be refusing to sleep, refusing to eat, and shooting the walls. You should be blatantly oblivious to Molly's infatuation, and Lestrade's awe at your brilliant mind, and Mycroft's constant attempts to take care of his little brother, and Mrs. Hudson's refusal to being a housekeeper, to me-" It's so hard to speak when there's a lump the size of England in your throat. "You should be here, with me; loving me back. Please, Sherlock. Come back to me. Don't leave me alone. I was so alone, for so long. I don't know if I could do it again, and I know I definitely don't want to. I need you, Sherlock. So fucking much."

I couldn't hold back the waves of tears anymore, and they just came flooding out. I buried my head in the blankets on Sherlock's cot, wishing with all of my heart, that he would just wake up.

But suddenly, a fit of coughing brought me away from my sobbing. I looked up with blurry eyes to see Sherlock, choking on his own breath. Some of the oxygen was returning to his lungs. I was totally utterly speechless.

After his coughing subsided, he looked at me with confused eyes.

"John?"


	7. Not Now, Not Ever

_A/N: That awkward moment when it's been like a month and a half since you last updated... So sorry! The last few weeks man, have been CRAZY. Fun Fact: I am actually planning on writing a musical, and as I was thinking about possible plots, I remembered that I had an unfinished story on here and rushed to the website! So I'm back! YAY MAGS!_

_Aaaaaaand here is the continuation of _Who Am I? _Enjoy!_

* * *

"John?"

"Oh, thank God," I breathed. Well, barely breathed. I lowered my head onto the cot and tried to regain my breath.

"John, what are you doing? Where am I? And why am I in a hos-," suddenly he paused, and I saw the realization creep into his eyes. "Oh."

"Oh?" I asked. "That's all you have to say is 'Oh.' Are you fucking kidding me, Sherlock?"

"John, there is certainly no need to cur-."

"SHUT UP. JUST SHUT UP, SHERLOCK," I yelled. Just then, a swarm of nurses crowded into the room and began checking his vitals and such. The entire time, I stood in the corner of the room, with what I'm sure a mixture of pain, anger, and a slight hint of relief on my face. His eyes never wavered from mine. I decided to leave the room to call Abbey, because I"m sure she wouldn't want to be the last one to know. Then, I would call Lestrade, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson. It might've just been my imagination, but Sherlock looked as though he was about to cry as I left the room.

* * *

About an hour later when the doctors were all through with him, and Sherlock was all through screaming at the doctors, I was told that he could go home the next morning, after they were able to supervise him throughout the night to make sure there were no everlasting problems.

Considering Sherlock hadn't eaten in over a week, (which really isn't that strange even when he isn't comatose), I went down to the cafeteria and brought him up some food.

I walked in the room and was surprised when I saw Abby sitting in the chair next to the cot, whispering indistinctly to Sherlock. They both looked up as the door opened.

"Abbey," I began. "I didn't know you were here."

"Yep. Just got here. Thought I'd make sure Sher was feeling himself again," she said with a slight smile.

"Do not call me Sher, that is not my name," he retorted.

"Yeah, he's feeling himself alright. Abbey, could you give us a minute?" She nodded, squeezed Sherlock's hand, and left the room. I set the food down on the bedside table and took her seat next to him.

"Before you say anything, you are eating that food. No exceptions," I said with my army voice. Sherlock took a look at the food, then me, then the food again, and after deciding he couldn't win, began to eat.

Several minutes of silence passed before it was broken.

"Why?"

I looked at Sherlock. I knew what he was asking. He was asking why I angry at him, because even drug-withdrawal Sherlock could tell when I was upset with him. He wanted to know why I could barely look him in the eyes with either crying or breaking his nose.

"Because you're better than this, Sherlock. And before you interrupt me, yes you are! You. Are. Brilliant. Which is why _I _don't understand why you had to go mess around with heroin. What could possibly drive you to do that, Sherlock? Please, just tell me." Abbey's words echoed in my mind: "_Because you rejected him!" _I was brought back to reality when he answered.

"Please don't leave me, John."

"What?"

"You're not going to leave me now, are you, John?" He looked so genuinely scared, I didn't know whether to cry or laugh because of this strange out-of-character look.

"Oh, Sherlock," again, Abbey's words spun in my head: "_All his life, he's been alone."_ I reached over and took hold of his hand.

"No, Sherlock. I'm not gonna leave. Not now, not ever. Do you understand me?"

The first genuine smile I've seen in a long while crept up unto his face.

"Yes, John."

* * *

_A/N: Yes, yes, I know, sorta short-ish. This is just a filler, I'll get back to regular updates soon._

_Fluff, fluff, fluffy. Wow. Aye, reviews (or PM's) are love! Spread the love, y'all!_


	8. I Remember

I spent the rest of the night in Sherlock's hospital room. No matter what me or any of the doctors suggested, he absolutely refused to sleep. Instead, we just talked. Abbey came in for a while, but mostly, it was just me and Sherlock. It might've taken me a while to notice it, but it's kind of always been 'Me and Sherlock.'

We talked of a lot of things: cases, what had happened in the last week, and he even asked me about his skull, but neither of us mentioned the kiss, the heroin, or anything that happened that day. I think that both of us really wanted to avoid the subject.

Sherlock was discharged from the hospital at 11am the next morning, and both Abbey and I accompanied him in the taxi that took him back to 221B Baker Street.

"Well, here we are. Flat, sweet flat. Sherlock, I'm making some lunch and I won't hear any complaining. Abbey, could you give me a hand?" I said.

"Yeah, sure," she replied. I heard Sherlock taking his stuff to his room.

When Abbey joined me in the kitchen, she had an odd look on her face. Excited, almost.

"So?"

"So, what?" Was I missing something?

"So? What happened? Did you kiss him yet?" She was almost trembling with anticipation of what she thought I was going to say.

"Kiss him? Who, Sherlock? And why would I do that?" I asked, dumbfounded.

"Man, you're thick. Because you love him!"

"Oh, Abbey, give it a rest. It's more complicated than that."

She sighed. "Oh, John. It really isn't." She made her way back to the living room and sat down on the sofa. "All you have to do is-"

She didn't get the chance to complete her sentence before the flat exploded.

* * *

"Abbey! Sherlock! Where are you!?" I screamed, but my voice was getting hoarse. I would get up to try and find them, but my leg is pinned. I don't think it's broken, but I definitely won't be able to remove it by myself. Suddenly, I hear steps coming towards me. The explosion caused a lot of dust and other things to invade the air, so I can't see a thing. I soon feel hands on my shoulders and my face, and recognize them as Sherlock's.

"John! John, are you alright? Is anything broken?" He asked at a million miles per hour.

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm fine. But I can't get my leg out. Help me lift this. On one, two, three!" With our combined efforts, we're able to free my leg from underneath the rubble.

"Sherlock, have you seen Abbey?"

Just then, we heard someone yell. We made our way to the place we heard it come from. There we found her, lying on the ground, but thankfully with nothing worse on her than a few scratches.

"Abbey, are you hurt?" This is the first time I've ever seen Sherlock display any sort of concern over Abbey.

"I... I remember."

"Remember what, Abbey?" I asked.

"Stop calling me that, that isn't my name! I remember who I am, John. Oh my God, I remember." She looked terrified.

"Well, isn't that a good thing? Looks like all you needed was a good knock on the head," I say, trying to lighten the mood a bit.

"No, it's not good! It's awful!" She yelled.

"Why is it awful?" Sherlock asked.

"Because you guys are going to die, and it's all my fault."

* * *

_A/N: Dun dun duuuuuuun!_


	9. Good Luck

_A/N: It's 2:00 in the bloody morning. Though I hope it doesn't suck, I'm really too tired to care._

* * *

"What do you mean, we're going to die?" I ask incredulously.

"I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry," Abbey (or maybe not Abbey) said through tears.

"Okay, wait. If you remember, then who are you?" Sherlock asked.

"My name is Tessa, Tessa Blake, and I really shouldn't be here." She made to get up.

"No, no, no, no, no. You can't just drop a bomb like that and then leave. Why did you-"

"Hello?! Sherlock, John, are you alright?" I heard Lestrade's voice from the stairwell.

"You can't tell him, he can't know I've remembered," Tessa said. "Please, I'll explain later."

"I really don't know if that's the best idea..." I started, but Sherlock interrupted me.

"Fine."

Just then, Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson came busting through the door.

"The freak's fine, sir," said Donovan once she saw that we were alright.

"Sherlock, John, what the bloody hell happened?" asked Lestrade.

"You're the police, why don't you figure it out?" snapped Sherlock.

"Yeah, he's fine," said Anderson.

"Well, let's get down to the station and try to figure out what's happened." said Lestrade, gesturing towards the door.

"We most certainly will not," said Sherlock. "I don't know about you, but my flat just exploded and I could use some rest. John? Abbey?"

We both followed Sherlock to his room, and waited for Lestrade and his people to leave. Tessa sat on Sherlock's bed while we stood in front of her.

"Alright, start talking," said Sherlock.

"You won't believe me."

"Then start with the easy things," I suggested. "Age, where you're from, things of that sort."

"I don't know."

"What do you mean? I thought you remembered."

She sighed. "I was taken."

"What do you mean, you were taken?" Sherlock asked. This must have piqued his interest.

"When I was a little girl, I was taken."

"By who?" I said.

She gave a sad chuckle. "I wish I knew."

"Go on," said Sherlock.

"I was taken. It was so many years ago. They took me far away, so far away. Ever since I can remember, they've been teaching me. Teaching me their way of life. They trained me. I could name 17 different ways to kill you right now with my bare hands and my eyes closed, and I've done it before. Not only that, but they forced me to do other things, too. No one ever expects the pretty young girl, now do they? I've been smuggling drugs in and out of the country for years. I'm a horrible person and I hate myself."

"Why the explosion?" I asked.

"They're angry with me."

"Why?"

"Because you betrayed them," Sherlock supplied. "Oh, this is brilliant! I can deduce again! It's so much easier to deduce someone when they actually know who they are! Wonderful!"

"Sherlock!" I scolded.

"No, it's okay, he's right. I wanted to stop them. Stop everything they were doing, so I broke into the main facility. I took pictures to show the police, but I was caught."

"Then what?" Sherlock demanded.

"I don't know, I can't remember. The hit on my head must of jogged my memory, but I still can't recall everything."

"Okay, okay, I'm still trying to wrap my head around everything," I said. "But why are we going to die?"

"You don't understand. These people are dangerous. More dangerous than you could ever imagine. They obviously aren't happy that I'm alive, and they especially won't be happy that you're helping me. You're in incredible danger."

"That's fantastic!" Sherlock yelled. "Finally, something worth my time!" He spinned around and had the same look on his face as a kid in a candy shop.

"He's always like that," I told her. I grabbed her hand. "Don't worry Tessa, we're going to help you."

"Yeah? And who's gonna help you?"

"Okay, Tessa," Sherlock started. "I'm going to need every single bit of information on this organization you can possibly supply me with."

Tessa told him everything she could remember, but it really wasn't much. It was almost as if she could remember everything except for the important things. Suddenly, Sherlock's phone rang.

"Sherlock Holmes." He made a strange face, then put the phone on the bed and pressed the speaker button. A woman's voice started to speak.

"You have 6 hours to return Ms. Blake to our custody. If she is not within our possession in this amount of time, the explosion will be bigger, and you and Dr. Watson's deaths will be ensured. This is your only warning."

"What if we leave? You can't blow us up if you can't find us," I said.

"Dr. Watson, we have been watching you for weeks. We aren't about to lose you now."

"If we actually were to do what you are asking of us, which we won't, how would we go about bringing her to you?" Sherlock asked.

There was a pause. "Figure it out, Mr. Holmes. If you're the genius, you should be able to find us, shouldn't you? You have 6 hours. Good luck."


End file.
